


Hark, the Crows (they tell me to run)

by Setonomous (SleepyKitten)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Hybrid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hybrids, Realistic Minecraft, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:40:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29203728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyKitten/pseuds/Setonomous
Summary: He thinks back to his life before this. He can't remember, but he knew he was different. He remembers music, laughter, tears and swords.He doesn't remember his name.Or, instead of finding his brother, Tommy adapts to the wilderness.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 182





	1. They tell me, Run

There wasn't really much he could do, at this point. Sure, he had left the ruined remains of Logsteadshire behind, traveling away from the small lagoon he had begun to call home, but leaving it behind with a crater for a house and a pillar by the hill would render him missing, if not dead. 

The only remains of him having been there being the lodestone bracelet he had, laying next to a dried patch of blood at the base of the tower. 

It's twin was across the sea, rubbing red into the wrist of the boy who it belonged to.

He kept 'Your Tubbo,' but without the bracelet they wouldn't be able to find him.

He didn't want them to.

The first few days of constant travel were both okay and terrible, the high of finally gathering the courage to leave having overtook the pains of non-stop walking.

After, though, it evened out. The reality of the situation was on the forefront of his mind, second to the need to hunt, the need to walk.

He didn't know where he was going, though he kept walking to the right of the sunset until his second shoe ripped, and his feet became even with calluses and blisters. Sticks and rocks were nothing now, after walking for so long.

He developed better hearing too, the back-and-forth banter he'd had with himself getting stale after the first week. 

He didn't speak anymore.

Soon enough, he hit an impasse. A coast, perpendicular to his path, and an ocean that stretched farther than his slate grey eyes, weary and dull, could muster the strength to see. 

He turned left, towards the bright orange sunset, and followed the coast, until he happened upon a ruined ship, half submerged in the soft grains of sand. The wood was still in good shape, so he opted to call it home for now. 

The inside, after digging until the moon was overhead, was fairly cozy. A wolf's hide stuffed with feathers and wool served as his resting place, tucked into the corner of the captain's quarters. A campfire, set up at the bow of the ship hanging over the water, and a single, iron lantern he found in the nav room were his only light sources. 

He boarded up the portholes and cleaned splinters off the floor, and slept through the day on his wolf's hide bed.


	2. They tell me, Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He learns to hunt. The wolves are fond of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for animal death, wildlife survival type shit

Starting a farm was something he had always been good at. Evenings planting potatoes with his brother and nights preparing food with his dad served him well, he thinks, as he circles his patches of carrots, wheat, and spuds growing on the edge of a nearby pond. A river, flowing from the north into the ocean at a diagonal, also served as a water source, the mouth being in sight of his shipwreck-hone's bow,

He settled with a leftover rabbit for food, having woken up at sunset and explored for a while. The dumb animal jumped off a cliff to escape him, but met it's end at the bottom. 

Bright red berries added a tang to the smoked meat, and he smiles as he eats.

This wasn't so bad.

Over the course of the week, or what he assumed was a week, he went to check on the crops, but the creeping cold frosted the young buds leaves, and he wasn't sure if they survived. 

He went hungry that day.

He was, however, pleased to find that hunting for rabbit and mutton at night was getting easier as time passed. His ears itched, and so did the bridge of his nose, but the cold of the tundra he was in was probably to blame. 

He only noticed his teeth changing when he bit his lip, drawing blood.

He ran his thumb over his incisors, and sure enough, they had become pointed and long. He guesses eating nothing but meat would do that to you.

Although, by watching a family of arctic foxes nearby, he learned that rabbits can be caught with his bare hands, if he's quiet. He traverses the trees, the thick soles of his feet giving him better grip on the bark. Sheep were the same, the stupid, stinky creatures being too focused on the grass they were eating to realize he was there. 

One night, he shared his mutton with a wolf pack, an injured canine nosing its way over to him hunched over his kill as it's friends watched from the trees. The wolves didn't mind him after that.

A few days after that was when the mobs caught up to him. 

With a grimace and his fists, he defended his little shipwreck from the nightly undead with difficulty. The texture of the rotten, coagulated blood was something he got used to, and he noticed, one night when he passed out before cleaning up, that the scent from the zombie flesh printed into his knuckles made them passive.

He got good at ducking under the skeletons sight, though, when an arrow almost broke his left collarbone. He was lucky it didn't hit a few inches to his right.

By this time, the cold of the tundra had lifted a small amount, and the warming air gave wake to dozens of young lambs in the trees, wolf pups and fox kits in the underbrush, and the remains of his sad farm had sprouted.

By the time the snow had completely melted, he had spruced up his shipwreck a little bit more. He uncovered the portholes to let more natural light in, but covered the door's top half in case of any mobs getting in. 

He had gotten very good at maneuvering his home crouched down, the added balance his long, cinnamon-ringed tail gave. It helped when he was in the trees, too.

A yelp caught his attention, his now long ears honing in on the crawlspace to his room. He stuck his head out and whined, one of the wolves that had moved in with him rolling on the floor with her paws in the air, her pups roughhousing beside her. 

They caught sight of him, and she got back onto her feet as they bounded into his chest. The three pups nipped at him, and he let out a soft sound when one caught his nose, the other two batting at the end of his tail. Their mother ducked through the door, but the five of them stopped when a bowl from outside resonated through the wood.

The males were back with food.

He let the four canines go, before leaving to do some hunting himself. He stopped by his pond, and harvested the various vegetables that grew overnight, before going further and pulling himself into a tree. The ground below his was a fresh game trail, and he sat on the branch, the pads of his feet pressed into the spruce, for what felt like hours before a decent sized rabbit sprung its way under him. 

Almost silently, he dropped down onto the rabbit, and launched himself forward to catch up. The creature panicked, bounding over a nearby fallen log, but he jumped over it as well, landing on all fours. The rabbit wasn't far, and jumped forward to catch it. His full body weight landed on the rabbit, hands around it's soft neck, as he killed his dinner without letting it make as much as a squeal.

Picking it up, he brushed off his knees and bounced on his toes, the adrenaline from using his long, digitigrade legs like that for the first time in a few days rushing through his veins. 

Back at his shipwreck, he went through the process of skinning and gutting the animal, before cooking most of it and inviting his wolf friends in. A curious fox kit poked it's head in as well as the wolves, the almost blue fur of the arctic fox blending into the snowy white pelts of the canines. He tossed them the raw rabbit he saved, before tearing into his own cooked rabbit.

He could get used to this.

(Almost a dozen kilometers away, a lodestone bracelet gets picked up by it's brother's hand. A wail is heard by none.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for inconsistent updates of various lengths I am Aged in da 'ed and unable to sort myself out


End file.
